


Reflections

by crozee



Category: We Happy Few (Video Game)
Genre: (or lack thereof), Drug Use, Gen, Oneshot, Pre-Game Speculation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-13 04:33:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16010378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crozee/pseuds/crozee
Summary: Arthur remembers. It's not the first time, nor will it be the last.





	Reflections

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a short one-shot to get me back into the swing of writing. At the start of We Happy Few, as Arthur you have the option to take your Joy and end the whole thing 5 seconds in (lol), which made me wonder if him running low on Joy and remembering Percy had happened before, perhaps in times where he was less resolved to do something about it. This is the result \o/ Hope you enjoy.

Tired hands moved almost of their own accord, drumming ritualistically across the typewriter as weary background music faded from one old song to the next. Arthur had been writing articles at the O’Courant long enough to know what was expected of him: fluff pieces and uplifting editorials, but that didn’t make it any easier to write. The clock on the back wall read 10:30pm, and the music he’d put on an hour or so ago was no longer distracting enough to keep the ‘click click click’ of the typewriter keys from slowly chipping away at his nerves. Aside from the record he had playing in the background, the only noise left to rival the frustrating ticking of the company typewriter was the rain. It should have added to the ambience; a soft pattering at the rooftops bringing about a homely, cosy feeling. 

But it wasn’t. It wasn’t ambient at all. In fact, working a little overtime had never left him so on edge. Maybe it had something to do with the three empty cups of coffee that were littering his otherwise pristine desk, or the looming deadline placed over his head. Maybe it was the fact that he hadn't taken his Joy for a good few hours, knowing that the more he took, the more nondescript and generic his writing became. 

Arthur let out a light sigh, removing his glasses and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. There was something that was keeping him here, he knew that much, and there was no doubt in his mind that it went beyond the article sitting half-finished in front of him. It was an elusive thought that had been playing on the fringes of his mind all week, the annoying kind of thought that reacted to any attempt to grasp it by dissipating and fading once again to the furthest recesses of his mind. It was quiet moments like this that he had found it easiest to concentrate, allowing stray thoughts to filter into his consciousness and swim betwixt the Joy-fuelled machinations, slowly becoming less abstract and more concrete as the drug wore off. Logically, Arthur could tell that whatever thoughts he was repressing were likely being repressed for good reason. If he were sensible, he’d take his Joy and the memories would fade as they always did, and he’d he happy. 

Because happiness was always a choice.

That was… Except for moments like this. Moments when he could feel something more powerful than his dependance on Joy reaching through him as if guided by a higher power. He reached out to take an empty cup, pretending not to notice the bottle of pills resting right next to it. He was already pulling a sour face as it reached his lips, peering down into the empty mug and glowering at the dregs still swirling around the base, all but willing it to fill up with a warm drink all on its own. 

“C’mon, there’s nothing to it,” He muttered to himself, slipping his glasses back on his face and squinting at the paper to try and spot any mistakes. “You know, Percy would have declined that rather nice spot of lunch with Ms. Cavendish and finished this hours ago.” 

Simple as the statement was, uttering it aloud was enough to make all the blood in his body run cold. He sat perfectly rigid, mug clutched in a vice-like grip as he stared at the same spot of paper, his last comment running through his head over and over and over. Percy… _Percy_. Shit. Fuck, shit. Percy, the train… The god damn train. Memories resurfaced in a nauseating wave that threatened to push all other thoughts clear out of his head. Arthur felt his strength begin to leave him as he placed the mug back on the table with trembling hands, taking a deep breath and trying to stay steady. The train. The Germans. The war. Percy. The memory that had been skirting his consciousness for weeks had been the last vestiges of his dear, beloved brother. The brother he'd lost all those years ago… 

How long had it been? Percy’s name had just rolled off his tongue with no thought behind it at all. He put the mug down and picked up his bottle of Joy, turning it over in his hands slowly, shakily, trying to stand firm despite the gravity of the situation. He recognised now that he was experiencing the kind of weight that one feels when making an important, possibly life-changing decision. 

But there was something about it that seemed familiar, somehow. Arthur recognised this, then promptly pushed it back. The more he thought about Percy and his last, desperate cries as he pawed at the train windows, the more the quiet, melancholic agony gripping Arthur’s conscience started to fade, slipping away and giving rise to a, blistering, white-hot anger. He'd forgotten his brother. His only brother. The brother he'd been separated from, who was now in Germany, alone and afraid and-- and God knows what else. That had to change. 

He slammed the pill bottle back down on the table and stood up, looking around his office. He paced up and down the stretch of carpet, thoughts racing, eventually wandering out into the hall and gravitating toward the coffee machine. He stood by it, the dull glow behind each button reflecting in the lenses of his glasses, obscuring the expression beneath. It almost felt as though the machine was the one thing tying him to the present moment, the cheery decal glaring up at him and expecting him to do the right thing. The decent thing. He glanced back to the bottle of Joy on his desk and felt a familiar tug at his heart strings, like re-rehearsing the same part of a play. 

The reality he was accustomed to had begun to unfurl at the seams, the last of his Joy finally leaving his system. Colour drained from the walls, revealing patches of grease and old stains in its wake. Cobwebs lined the building, and piles of old newspapers sat underneath a shimmering layer of dust, almost glowing in the dim, artificial light. Arthur tried not to notice, listening to the muffled tones of the record’s last song as his thoughts slowed to a sluggish crawl. 

Impulse is a powerful thing, but to capitalise, one must seize the moment, act immediately and with urgency. As Arthur stood idle in the decaying newsroom, the moment of impulse slowly began to subside; anger faded and gave way to guilt, and suddenly, the reality of his situation began to set in. The tiniest seed of doubt had been planted, but it was enough.

“Where would I go…?” He mumbled, equal parts exhausted and anxious. “I can't very well walk to Germany, can I? Not if I'm off my Joy. Come to think of it, I doubt the Bobbies would let me up and stroll out of Wellington Wells, regardless of whether or not I'm hopped up on Joy.” Even besides the Constabulary, there were Doctors to worry about, Downers, Wastrels, the plague, his poor Uncle, who he'd be leaving all alone… Even his pet lizard. 

He felt each new obstacle drive into his chest like a steel nail, not at all helped by the onset of a pounding headache he suspected was a byproduct of withdrawal.

It had been at least ten years since he’d watched that train of ghosts depart from the station, hollow faces and hollow eyes watching him with unbridled jealousy as they passed. His brother’s voice echoed in the back of his head, calling his name, desperately crying out, _Arthur, where are you?_

Inside his chest, Arthur felt something break. Percy was gone, and surely it was too late to do anything about it. He could let go of everything he held dear, cut off the ties holding him to Wellington Wells and abscond into the night in a desperate and risky rescue attempt easily ten years overdue, or… 

“I could just take my Joy and forget all this.”

There was an edge in his voice he’d never recognised before, a kind of heavy sadness that saturated every word. With each passing moment free of Joy’s amnesiac effects, new memories came filtering through the net of denial. This wasn't the first time he'd had to make this choice. This had happened before, always in moments of quiet, tainted by withdrawal and a reluctance to give up his life in Wellington Wells for a brother he didn't even know was still alive. 

The choice had already been made. Perhaps it had never even been there from the start, not really. He made his way over to his desk, sat down, and turned a pill over in his hands. Happy was the country with no past… 

______________________________________

 

The clock on the wall read 11:42. Arthur Hastings sat at his desk, face adorned with a content grin as he finished the last sentence of his most recent article with a bold full-stop. ‘Come Fly with Me’ by Frank Sinatra played through the radio behind him, filtering into the cool night air, accompanied by a light spot of rain which pattered against his office window. Satisfactorily, he lifted his paperwork and left it neatly on his desk, standing up and popping another Joy into his mouth. There was something that was bugging him, something edging on the fringe of his memory… But he was too tired to worry about it now. Maybe he’d see to it later. He stood up, gathered his things and locked the door behind him as he left, humming merrily along to the conclusion of another wonderful night in Wellington Wells.


End file.
